


Sic Parvis Magna

by hunterxxxhunter



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Anxiety, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, Boarding School, Farm Hand!Marco, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Horseback AU, Horseback Riding, Horseback Riding Academy, M/M, Punk Jean, Punk Jean Kirstein, Self Confidence Issues, Social Anxiety, student!Jean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 05:31:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10298672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunterxxxhunter/pseuds/hunterxxxhunter
Summary: Sic Parvis Magna- Greatness from Small BeginningsThe angsty Jean Kirstein has once again been forced to go away to boarding school. But this is no normal school. At this school you get to spend half of your day horseback riding, which means you get to spend half the day with the world's most attractive farmhand; Marco Bott.Welcome to Trost Boarding School and Equine Academy Jean! Here's to hoping you can survive the year!





	

Here I am again. It's like deja vu; my head pressed against a vibrating car window, eyes glazed and staring out at bare rolling hills as if they’ll send me some sort of answer. Father's manager is giving me some nonsense lecture about a “fresh start”, or maybe he used the words “new beginnings”- who knows. All _I_ know is that I've effortlessly tuned him out, because hell I've heard this _exact_ speech easily 10 times. Although…something does feel different today. I’m not entirely sure what, but I’ve been having these flickers of hope trill through my thoughts. I mean hey, I did get to pick the boarding school this time, and at this school you only have to go to class for 4 hours a day! Damn Jean maybe you did luck out. Sadly, the minuscule- and might I add **rare** \- spark of optimism is ripped from me when my ears are pained by the nasty squeal of truck tires. 

“Mr. Kirstein, we have to let Sampson out here. Then I'll drive you up to the dormitories and assist in dropping off your belongings." Ivan spoke, his voice sounding dryly proper as if I _haven't_ been schlepped around by him from school to school for the past ten years. 

He truly did look so unnatural and ridiculous behind the wheel of this pick up truck, he's definitely more of a Lincoln driving man. Hell I'm pretty sure his nails are manicured. If that doesn't scream “prissy dick who's paid to keep me away from my father” then I don't know what does.

I cancel out my angsty, judgmental thoughts to focus on the towering sign we’ve parked under. Maroon letters are carved across a dark oak sign, their cursive font reading, _Trost Boarding School and Equine Academy_. The school’s name sounds just as pretentious as the last, and I can already picture the type of students I’ll stumble upon. There’s a thicket of pine trees surrounding the arching entry way, their arms waving in the gentle breeze, and a narrow dirt path cutting through the brush. A forest of trees blocks any view of the school building that I’m so desperately searching to get a glimpse of, and it makes the whole place feel even more distanced from civilization. I’m still questioning my decision to go to an academy in the back woods of Arizona, especially since I’m not well acquainted with sweltering heat, but I think my reservations may be arising a little too late.

I squeeze the bridge of my nose between my finger and thumb, finally feeling the magnitude of starting at a new school; again. The sensation is no less than sickening. My fingers are doing a trembling dance, as if trying to warm themselves up from their frigidity. Each exhale is hitched and broken to the pattern of my frantic heartbeat, all accompanied by a desert-like mouth. It’s as if a brumal cloud shrouds itself around my body, not hesitating to steal the breath from my lungs or the clarity of my vision. My entire self is sinking into the void of queasy guts and tight chests. Rational thought is no longer when this _visitor_ is present.

Thankfully I’m startled awake from my momentary lapse in mental stability by aggressively loud tapping next to my ear. I dart my head to the side, turning towards the noise, only to meet eyes with an unamused, window knocking man.

He mumbles something through the glass, not audible to my ears, but that's mainly because I’m completely distracted by how _pissed off_ this guy looks. He's really “rocking” that middle part, and despite the catastrophe that is his hair, those beady, aggravated, glaring eyes are the true deal breaker to his whole look.

I quickly flip the lock, pull up on the handle with a swift click, and swing open the obnoxiously heavy door. After peeling myself off the sweat slicked leather seat I hop down from the truck with a loud clunk, my converse slapping against a dusty path. I land myself right in front of the surprisingly short man, the wretched nausea in my gut and cottony thoughts in my mind still present. 

“Hurry and open up the trailer. Get your horse out.” He directs, arms defiantly crossed and lips pursed as if my presence was offensive. 

Jeez what's up with this guy? He doesn't even say hello or introduce himself. Just gives me an order.

"Uh okay." I hesitate, not sure why this guy seems so displeased with me, but he's clearly got some sort of authority around here so I might as well shut up and listen. 

I quietly comply to the raven man's orders, stuff my hands in my pockets, scuff the chalky ground with my toe, and aim for the end of the dirt stained trailer. Before I can reach the trailer doors to give Sampson some much needed relief from his tight confinement, an unfamiliar voice calls my name. 

"Jean Kirstein!" 

In a startled spasm I twirl- or to be more precise I stumble around on my heels, tripping over my own feet only to have my eyes clumsily meet with icy blue orbs of a towering blonde man. Somehow this near giant snuck up on me, probably during my more than _graceful_ twirl, and was already only a foot away from me, standing with official posture and an outstretched arm. I politely reach out to meet his hand, conjoining in a sweaty, way too firm shake. 

“Yes, I'm Jean." 

"Welcome. My name is Erwin, I'm head of the equestrian center here." 

For some reason he was still shaking my hand- no he wasn't shaking my hand. This guy was shaking my whole goddamned arm, practically threatening to rip it off! Thankfully he releases his steel grip when yet **another** unknown man pops up from god knows where. His appearance is a thousand times gentler than everyone I’d met so far, and it’d be a blatant lie to say that there isn't something completely hypnotizing about him.

His skin is sun kissed, speckled with starry freckles, and those darkened eyes hold this small sparkle in them that I’d just never seen before. His mud splattered jeans are paired with a ghastly orange flannel, rolled up to his elbows, exposing toned and tanned forearms. This guy is _hot_. But unfairly so. Just one glance and I feel a lump in my throat and a twist of my stomach. I hadn't even realized how long I'd been staring until Erwin began talking again, awakening me from my trance.

"This is Levi, one of the top equestrian trainers here, and behind me is Marco. He's the main farm hand here. He'll help bring your horse to the barn." 

Ahh so Mr.Freckles is named Marco. Suits him.

He flashes me a familiar grin, resulting in my heart flapping like a bird trapped in the cage of my ribs. The teeth that peek through his rosy lips are blindingly white, and those freckled cheeks press his eyes into mere slits, making his appearance _somehow_ more endearing. From just one smile the back of my neck is flushing, warning me that- Jean you gotta pull yourself together before your face becomes a _very_ unattractive shade of red. 

"Uh hi...I'll get my horse out." I respond, finally able to continue the task that the little angry man- or excuse me, _Levi_ had given to me. 

I can feel all three of their eyes burning into my back as if I’m being intensely judged based off the way I walk. Why am I so nervous? I’ve started at a new school at least a thousand times. Why can't I just shake off that hazy fog from earlier? It’s back, this time with less of an anticipatory feel. It’s more stressful, more overwhelming, and thieves my coordination. The smoke clogs my mind, forcing me to solely focus on the sinking sensation surging around me. Reality is stripped from me, replaced with detachment, and throwing my brain into the position of processing but not truly _taking in_. Why am I so fucked up like this…? Nope Jean we aren't going there right now. Get your horse, listen to what they say, and self loath later. 

I realize I've just been standing at the end of the trailer, unmoving, acting paralyzed. I finally will myself to snap back to reality, because I _need_ to unlock this trailer. But fumbling thumbs, just another _lovely_ gift from my anxiety, decide that they have their own agenda. Before I can really get into a panic, which I’m seconds away from, a blessing from God is sent to me. The angel that is Marco appears next to me, clasping a warm hand on my shoulder, and unlocking the trailer doors with the other. 

"Hey don't be too nervous. I promise those two aren't as mean as they look." Marco whispers, his face tipping in towards mine before he steps up into the trailer, releasing his grip on me to twirl a lead rope in hand.

I just nod my head at him, not sure how to respond but feeling overcome with gratefulness.

"So what's this guy's name?" Marco asks, tapping his tanned hand on Sampson's shoulder and upturning an unsettling cloud of dirt. 

"Sampson." I answer, my voice sounding oddly cold.

Marco makes a little click with his tongue, gives a gentle tug to the lead rope, and guides Sampson out of the trailer with remarkable ease. 

"Wow...he's usually never that calm with the trailer. He tends to spook really easily." I compliment, hoping I can make up for the tone I used when responding just a moment ago. 

"Does he have some Arab in him?" Marco's eyes scan up and down Sam's chestnut coat, and I spot flares of applause. 

"Yup, he's half Arabian half Saddlebred." 

"Ahhh so that's why he's got these long legs. He’s a beautiful horse.” Marco seems stuck in adoration and I begin to think he's seeing something in Sampson that I must be missing. 

"Oi you two stop talking and get the horse to the barn." Levi shouts, angry aura still radiating from that tiny body as he looks up from some private conversation he’s having with Ivan and Erwin. 

"Sorry!" Marco apologizes, a big dopey grin flashing across his face. 

He starts nearly jogging down the overgrown trail I had spotted from the truck, Sampson swinging his head up in excitement as they aim for what I assume to be the barn.

I pace behind them, kicking a lone pebble along the trail and feeling unsure of what to do with myself. Verdant branches hang low over my head, threatening to grasp my hair with taunting arms. Some badgering bushes catch my skinny jeans with their stinging nettles, wriggling their way through the cloth to bite my legs in an attempt to make this journey more unpleasant.

We duck around a sharp corner, curving in harmony with the path before popping through the brush. An open field of glowing rolling hills appear, matching themselves with an oversized dusty grey barn that seemingly arose out of nowhere. At least twenty pastures stretch across the land, their white picket legs running up and down the grassy fields. 

"I'll turn him out to an empty pasture." Marco affirms, his head resolutely focused forward, ignoring the antsy movements of my horse by his side. He completely dismisses Sampson who’s doing a riled up, temperamental dance. I would be a liar if I said I wasn't impressed. If I were in his position I'd be terrified that Sam would spook, run me over, and flatten me out.

Whenever Sampson acts up I just hand him off to someone else, letting my fear conquer me and letting some other person handle him. Maybe I lack the confidence to deal with him, but I truly can’t find it in myself to stand up and be stern enough to correct his bullshit. My dumbass is more confident when I’m on his back riding him, mostly because riding has always come naturally to me. I know that’s one hell of a contradiction, especially since when you're on a horse’s back you can get thrown off; however, that’s the type of man Jean Kirstein is. A man of contradictions, self doubt, and a healthy dose of sarcasm.

But then there's Marco. Who just met my horse yet doesn't even flinch at Sampson's chancy movements. 

* * *

 

Before I realize it we're already at the barn, the arching doorways graciously welcoming us into it's isles. I can barely comprehend that we're in a _barn_. There is not even a goddamn piece of hay on the floor, and it's almost nauseatingly clean. Every lead rope hung on the stall doors is tied with some fancy knot that I've never seen before, and there’s a whiteboard littered with names, numbers, and symbols. Barns usually give off the familiar sense of home, no matter the barn. But this place…it feels so cold and unwelcoming.

* * *

 

After getting lost in cliche thoughts I notice the disappearance of Marco and Sampson, and take it upon myself to give a personal tour. 

I stroll down the speck free isles, tipping my head to peek in through the black metal bars that gate the stalls. The majority of stalls are unoccupied, but the few loitering horses that remain are clearly groomed to the point of competition cleanliness. The high ceiling is crisscrossed with low hanging wooden beams, their sturdy bodies becoming home for a few stray birds nests. A darkened room centers itself between the string of stalls and I hesitantly take a step in. Automatic lights flicker on, illuminating a precisely organized tack room filled with color coordinated grooming tools, dangling leather girths (of course arranged by size), and name labeled saddles.

The sound of clunking boots echo to my ears, causing me to whip around on my heel, exit the room, and find Marco hanging up a lead rope. His hands wildly twist and turn the navy cloth into a skilled knot, expertly manipulating the rope with ease. My eyes frantically try to analyze where his hands shift and tug, but much to my dismay I'm unable to learn this unconventional tying method. 

"Haha don't worry. I'll teach you how to do this crazy knot. Levi makes us tie all the lead ropes like this..." Marco sighs, seemingly exhausted at the thought of what I assume to be the wrath of Levi. 

“Oh thanks.” I say, slightly taken off guard by his awareness of me. I’m not quite sure of myself in this new setting. Truthfully I don't really know why I picked this school. I guess I thought it'd be an easy way to spend my senior year. A school where half your day is spent learning and half is spent riding, can't be too bad right? 

“No problem…we should probably hurry back up the trail so you can go set up your stuff in the dorms." Marco directs, waving his hand to call me after him. 

I nod my head, shuffle up next to him, and take one more glance around the barn as if that'll instantly familiarize me with the place. I fiddle with my earlobe as we walk back, twisting the back of my earring between my pointer finger and thumb, and begin turning my head up and around to distract myself from the unspoken air.

“I hope you don't mind me asking but, how long did it take you to stretch those gauges?” Marco asks, staring at my ears with those sharp eyes that _of course_ picked up on my fidgeting.

My hands shoot down to my sides in a flash, all from an unnecessary wave of self conscious that sweeps over me, “Uhh it probably took about six or seven months. I wasn't too eager to stretch ‘em quick.”

“They look really good on you…like _really_ good.” Marco compliments, flicking his eyebrows up, and settling a devious smirk on his lips.

Come on why’d he have to say it like _that_? Why’d he have to make that face? God, are you testing me? I was already a gawking, painfully awkward disaster earlier when you placed this heavenly freckled man in front of me. But now it seems that out of spite you have decided to challenge me with the most laborious task of all; accept a compliment (from a striking man might I add) _without_ becoming a blushing flustered mess.

“Oh uh thanks…I really like piercings and stuff.” My hand clasps the back of my neck, rubbing the flaming skin as if I can will it from spreading to my cheeks. Is small talk always this difficult?

“Do you have any other piercings?” Marco presses, still having no hesitations with keeping our idle chat flowing.

“Yeah, my tongue.” I answer with some confidence, sticking out my tongue like an immature five year old to flash the silver stud. I’m not entirely sure why I feel so proud to show off my piercings to him, but I have the inkling that it has something to do with the big brown dopey eyes that are indulging me.

“Man…that’s so cool! I’m kinda jealous not gonna lie.”

“Do you want any piercings?”

He pauses at the question, tipping his head up, combing his fingers through bay locks, appearing as though he’s swimming in thought. Finally he animatedly springs up with an answer, “I’ve always thought having nipple piercings would be pretty cool.”

Did I hear him right…? No way he just said that. No way. We just met, you don't share something like that with someone you just met.

I make a meek agreeing grunt with my throat and veer my eyes down, intently focusing on the dirt path we are trailing up, and attempting to conceal the rose blooming on my face.

“Jean.”

“Huh? What?”

Marco swiftly slides in front of me, cutting me off with purpose. He leans in towards my collar bone, eyes adverted down, hovering just close enough to tickle me with his breath. He tilts his head upward, forcing my wide eyed stare to meet with his doe-like hazel orbs. After a teasing poke to the chest he asks, “Jean…are your cheeks all red because you have a nipple piercing?”

Is this guy for real? What the hell is wrong with him? Can he tell that I _do_ in fact have my nipples pierced?

Dear God, I understand you’re trying to punish me for my sins and all. I know being gay isn't exactly _cool_ in your books; however, I’m not so sure sending a sun kissed, toned farm hand to torment me was the best form of discipline. Then again I’m pretty sure I’d be more comfortable burning in the pits of hell. Maybe you did hit the nail right on the head with this one.

“Uh…I-I…hah…” I sputter out, unable to form any words. Instead of attempting to squeak out anymore I decide to quickly pace up the trail, knowing we’re almost near Ivan and the truck. Almost near safety from this unbearable conversation.

Before I can mutter anymore unpleasant sounds- or get too far away- Marco smacks my back, laughing deep from his belly, “Haha I’m just messin’ around with you man. No need to get all worked up. But in all seriousness I’ve never really considered getting a piercing, not sure if I could pull it off.”

Oh…he was joking. I guess I’ve been isolating myself too the point where I, Jean-fucking-Kirstein, can no longer identify a joke. I mean I’m not the master of jokes or anything, but my usual sarcasm has a sense of humor in it’s own.

“Oh hah sorry…but I think you could really pull off piercings.” Honestly this man could pull off anything. Hell he could be wearing a hazmat suit and still look attractive.

“Really?!” Marco responds, his face filled with the excitement of a child in a toy store. “What piercings do you think I could pull off?”

Before I get the chance to respond Ivan is calling my name, alerting us to our arrival at the truck and half saving me from the torment that is small talk.

“Mr. Kirstein! We need to leave **now** or you will not have enough time to unpack.”

Marco and I both spin around at the call, glancing at Ivan before turning back to one another.

“Oh…well uh bye. Thanks for the help.” I farewell, scratching the back of my neck and pressing my tongue into my cheek.

“I’m happy to help. I _really_ hope to see you around soon.” Marco parts, giving me a little wink matched with a smug grin.

Why did he say it like that? What’s with this guy? Is he flirting with me or something? I can never tell in these situations, I really lack in the department of properly reading people.

I’m usually not a tongue tied, beet red mess. Hell I’m normally a loud mouthed, sarcastic asshole, yet with this guy I can barely mutter out a proper sentence. Christ I haven't even gotten halfway through my first day and here I am, already being tortured.

As I climb up into the truck I silently pray that I don't have to see that guy again, not because he was boner-inducingly attractive- yes I know that’s lewd but I’m a 17 year old with raging hormones what do you expect?- and not because he had an innate charm to him that made my knees wobble. But I am praying that I don't have to see him again because I’m pretty sure I might combust. The flirting, or whatever it is this guy is doing, is honestly a safety risk for me at this point.

I sink into the passenger seat with an exasperated sigh, dropping my head back in relief before peering out the window, only to spot Marco glancing at me through the glass, a gentle smile settled on his lips. Welcome to Trost Academy Jean, here’s to hoping you can make it through the year I think, making an imaginary toast to myself for good luck. At the rate this day has been going, I’m gonna need it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I write more chapters? Probably not because this is 1) absolute shit 2) unoriginal 3) I never edited it and 4) I'm 100% positive no one will like this or even read it.
> 
>  
> 
> ~title translation  
> Absit Omen- let an omen be absent


End file.
